


The Argument With a Happy Ending

by IronWomanStark



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Arguing, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronWomanStark/pseuds/IronWomanStark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Illya compromises a mission to save Solo, the American is less than happy. However, a bit of talking (yelling) and some fist-clenching later, and Illya finds himself letting out his emotions in a more... direct way.<br/>----------------------------<br/>"The mission does not matter if you die." Illya was raising his voice again, quickly getting angry once <br/>more. He was spluttering slightly, as if the words were struggling to come out or were difficult to translate. <br/>"...Well, of course it still--"<br/>"No! It does not. I will not allow you to die on my watch," Illya roared...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Argument With a Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little ranty drabble I wrote one day during class, and I thought there would be someone out there who would enjoy reading it!

Six months after being forced into a partnership and nineteen hours after first setting foot in Rome, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were irritated with each other once again. Peril was doing most of the yelling, and Solo was trying not to get in the way of his rage, as was usual. He'd already broken one lamp, and Solo really wasn't keen on being used for target practice. 

"I can't believe you just let him get away like that." 

Solo had his hands in his suit pockets, a fine layer of dirt and sweat covering them both and a bit of blood dripping from the cut on Solo's forehead. He'd completely forgotten about the gash, to be honest, and was much more focused on giving Illya a disappointed and slightly ticked-off look. 

Leaning back against one wall of their rather luxurious hotel room, Solo watched Illya carefully as the Russian put his hands on the back of the couch and dropped his head, trying to get a handle on himself. Their mission hadn't gone well: not only were they both bruised and exhausted, but their target had gotten away along with most of his henchmen. 

Solo was itching to collide his fist with Illya's face and also to place a soothing hand on his shoulder and comfort him. The American had dropped as many frustrating hints as he could, but still Illya had yet to make any move to return his feelings. Not that Solo thought he had FEELINGS, of course, just that he thought Illya had a cute ass. And really nice arms. His hair wasn't so bad either, Solo had always had a thing for blondes--

There was a moment of silence, during which one could have heard a pin drop, before Solo finally pulled himself out of it and spoke up again. "Well?" 

"Well what?" Illya snapped, before slowly raising his head to look at Solo. There was a deadly temper bubbling just under the surface, and Solo could easily see it in his set eyes and furrowed brows. 

"What were you thinking? I had it under control--"

"'Under control'? Cowboy, please. Do not lie." Illya scoffed, straightening up to meet Solo's gaze. He could be quite terrifying to most, a sharpness to his already intimidatingly-deep voice that almost -- almost -- made Solo want to back down. Unfortunately, the American was too stubborn for that. 

"I'm not, I can assure you. I was ready for him--"

"He had a gun pointed at you and he hit you in the head." Illya cut him off again in his irritation, indicating Solo's bleeding temple with an open hand. The throbbing in Solo's head reminded him of the injury, but it was only after Illya had spoken that Solo remembered he was bleeding. Illya sighed and went off to the bathroom, returning with a small towel just as Solo reached up to touch the trickle of blood running down his temple. 

"Here. Pressure." He threw the towel at Solo, who caught it right as it hit his chest, then immediately turned his back to Solo. A hand was over his mouth, the other tapping against his side. Illya's accent was rather thick today, Solo mused, as it tended to be when he was particularly angry. 

There was a beat, then Solo spoke. 

"Wish you had been this useful back at the factory." Solo muttered, folding the towel and placing it over the cut on his head. It was bleeding profusely but wasn't deep enough to cause Solo any major concern. He'd had worse, anyway. 

Solo nearly regretted his words when Illya suddenly whipped around to face him, hands clenched into fists at his side. "What? What did you just say?" He took a step towards Solo, who stood his ground as Illya's eyes bore holes into his own. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that he didn't have much options for escape: he was being backed up into a wall. If this was how he died, then so be it: Napoleon Solo did not back down when he knew he was right, especially with someone as infuriating as Kuryakin trying to tell him to "let it go" the whole way back from the mission.

"You heard me."

"Say it again." 

"Wish. You. Had. Been. This--"

"You would have been KILLED!" Illya roared, taking yet another terrifying step closer to Solo, his knuckles white from the force of clenching them shut. No doubt he had nail marks in his palms from pressing so hard. Solo was confident that Illya wouldn't possibly kill him and kept his head high, though what other things the man might do to him, he wasn't sure. 

"I had it under control, like I said!" 

"How? How did you have that situation under control, Cowboy?"

"I would have figured something out."

"Oho! Figured something out, hmm? What, AFTER he shot you?" Now Illya had moved past basic anger, lacing sarcasm into every word and practically screaming at the man who was calmly responding to him. Solo could only keep calm for so long, however, and slowly began to raise his own voice in a struggle to be heard, never once taking his eyes off Illya's.

"You had him right in your grasp, practically in custody, and you let him go. Let him slip right through your fingers!" This much was true, and they both knew it: Illya had been mere seconds away from closing in on their target when he'd seen Solo in trouble and went to his aid instead. Illya scoffed, smiling slightly as if he couldn't possibly believe what Solo was saying. It wasn't smiling, really; If Solo didn't know better, he would have thought Illya had a toothache. 

"Because I had to go save YOU!"

"That was not the plan, Peril." 

The smile faded. "Forget the plan! Are you saying I should have let you die?"

"I wasn't going to DIE, that's the point! I had it--"

"Yes, yes, 'under control'. I heard you first time!"

"You know I'm capable of taking care of myself. You must know that by now." Solo didn't know when he'd stepped off from the wall and had taken his own step towards Illya, but he found himself closer to his seething partner as he spoke. They were both doing their best to keep their voices even, but failing. 

"Yes, but--"

"Then why, Peril? Why didn't you trust me to take him out? Did you forget the mission?" 

"It's not about trust, it's--"

"He's gone now. Who knows where. That was our one shot and you blew it. Weeks of work, gone." 

Solo was too frustrated to worry about some minor cut on his head, and angrily tossed the towel away. Illya's eyes watched the towel and his hand twitched as it fell, as if he'd wanted to catch it and throw it right back at the stubborn American. 

"You're alive. I don't consider that 'blowing it'." Illya's eyes met Solo's again, his voice deadly quiet, but Solo only shook his head and put his hands on his hips, glaring at the carpet. There was something more going on and he could feel it. This was unlike Peril in so many ways, the man who could put aside everything human and be the rabid killing machine Solo knew he'd been bred for.

"Look, we can track him down again. Man like that cannot run for very long." Illya was seemingly doing his best to take back what little control he had left, though he still looked like an explosion simply waiting to happen. 

"That's not the point," Solo quickly snapped. He was upset about failing the mission, sure, but there was something else there, too. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on was upsetting Illya more than usual. Was it that Illya didn't trust him? Saw him as some incompetent child that needed saving? 

"Then what is, Solo?" Illya yelled back. His teeth were out, his hands balled into tight fists once more, and suddenly Illya was a mere step or two away from him. Part of Solo feared for the well-being of his face, and part of him knew he was getting close to the answer and wanted to push for more. 

He lowered his voice, their conversation taking a route Illya hadn't expected it to. "You chose me over the mission. You wouldn't have done that months ago." Sure, Solo had grown quite... fond, one could say, of Illya. Overly fond, Gaby had once mused. Solo did his best to keep an eye out for him on missions and he had certainly saved his ass once or twice. However, he'd never compromised a mission just to help Illya, mostly because it had never come down to that. The man could certainly take care of himself, just as Solo could. 

Illya was silent, seething at him as his brain struggled to form coherent thoughts. Solo could see his chest rising and falling, though he mainly kept his gaze set squarely on Illya's eyes. It was only now that Illya's glare finally faltered that Solo knew he'd touched a nerve.

"I did not want you to die. Is that so wrong?"

Solo kept his voice level, trying to use reason to bring Illya back down. "No, but I was fine. If I go, it's not going to be at the hands of some henchman." The Russian merely shook his head before glancing back up at Solo, looking visibly upset.

"You do not understand."

"What is there possibly to understand?"

"The mission does not matter if you die." Illya was raising his voice again, quickly getting angry once more. He was spluttering slightly, as if the words were struggling to come out or were difficult to translate. 

"...Well, of course it still--"

"No! It does not. I will not allow you to die on my watch," Illya roared, looking quite strained indeed, a vein popping in his neck. Solo only looked confused at this point, trying to understand. Obviously his life was important, but why was Illya getting so upset over this? Something had changed over the last few months to make Illya soft, and Solo wasn't sure what. 

"But you--"

"Oh, for the love of--" Illya muttered, before quickly closing the distance between them in just a few steps. Before Solo could react, Illya's hands were cupping his face and he was forcing the man against the wall with his body, eagerly pressing his lips to Solo's without warning or mercy. He'd closed his eyes, not wanting to see how Solo was going to react in fear there would be disgust there instead of consent. 

Solo was completely frozen for a moment, not sure if he was just suffering from a concussion or if the kiss was actually happening. So this was why Illya had dropped everything and come to him: Illya's emotions had gotten the better of him. 

Suddenly, Solo didn't mind so much that they'd be facing the wrath of Waverly in just a few short hours. A minuscule part of his brain knew that he owed Illya his life and that he was just being stubborn, but now was not the time for such thoughts: there was a frustrated Russian to attend to.

Illya was desperately trying to get a reaction out of him, his breathing not quite steady and a tremor in his hands. He wasn't confused or unsure in the slightest: he'd felt himself falling for Solo steadily over their time as partners, and simply couldn't bear to keep hiding any longer. Solo had only had an inkling as to Illya's true feelings ("He stares at you when you're not looking, you know" Gaby had once muttered to him over dinner), but the American couldn't have imagined this moment ever happening even in his wildest fantasies. He could see the Russian's eyes screwed shut, the angry lines on his forehead from furrowing his brow, dark blonde eyelashes he'd never been close enough to examine before. 

When it all finally processed in his mind, Solo explored the new territory with an angry, tentative, confused kiss of his own. Both of their blood was still boiling and the adrenaline was still coursing through their veins from their failed mission. Slowly, gingerly, Solo reached forward for Illya's waist as his eyes fluttered shut, letting Illya sink into him as he stood there, pressed so firmly against the hotel wall. Illya still seemed upset, shaken, and Solo could feel the tension in the way his fingers dug desperately into his neck. 

There was only so much kissing back that Solo could do, Illya very strictly taking the wheel and kissing him as if his life depended on it. He was doing his best to respond, to let Illya know that it was okay, that he wanted this too. It seemed as though Illya just needed to get it out first, though Solo couldn't pretend he didn't enjoy the needy way Illya was pressing against him, or the quiet groan he'd made when Solo nibbled on his lower lip. It made his heart skip in a rather embarrassing way, though he would have never admitted it out loud.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over: Illya gave one last desperate kiss before pulling back, his hands moving to brace himself on the wall on either side of Solo's head. Solo kept his hands where they were, unsure of Illya's feelings: the Russian was looking down, unable to meet his eyes even though Solo only had eyes for him. He looked pained, exhausted, finally able to make Solo understand but tired from having to expose himself so deeply. Solo's bleeding cut was long forgotten by this point, and the thundering in Solo's ears from the blow to his head had been replaced by his own pounding heart. 

"Illya." 

Kuryakin looked up quickly, not completely sure of what he'd find. Solo was nearly smiling at him, the very corners of his mouth perked upwards in a way that began to reassure Illya. The Russian felt his breath catch as Solo opened his mouth to speak, a spark in Solo's eyes that always came when he was being especially charming to the women they came across.

"You could've just said..."

But that was the whole point: he couldn't have. Illya was a man of action, of showing his emotions through saving Solo's life and roughly taking him against the walls of their hotel. Not that Solo minded in the least: he'd always wondered what the tall Russian spy tasted like.


End file.
